


Messes

by MarthaBug0192



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Barry Allen Whump, Cameos, Childhood Trauma, Clumsy Barry Allen, Eating Disorders, Family Issues, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Self-Esteem Issues, Social Anxiety, Young Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarthaBug0192/pseuds/MarthaBug0192
Summary: When Barry is sent to find Alfred, he ends up getting more than bargained for, and Alfred gets some relief of his own.Or: why Barry is the way he is, and Alfred gets a grandson for a few minutesReferences to the comics and characters and Snyder cut though mostly based on the Justice league movie
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Barry Allen & Alfred Pennyworth
Comments: 3
Kudos: 65





	Messes

Barry has said it in his head a million times, and maybe it was starting to makes sense. Maybe not.

He holds his gut over the suit, trying to think over the grumbling. Playing possible scenarios in his head where he'd mentions eating after everything that's happened with the new fight team. He's waited to see if somebody else would bring up the idea of getting a bite to eat, hopefully, maybe.

A good part of the hour was spent watching Diana sulk - something he's sure she has never had to do before. The only positive energy was bouncing off of her sword with each sharpening stroke. Diana forced a smile his way, then towards Victor as Arthur began to take all the stress out on him.

Of course it would probably piss Bruce off, but why can Arthur just stick to ruining stuff instead of attacking the team?

His tongue trails over his tingling lips a few times before they work out what he should say. "So.. is this a bad time to bring up my blood sugar?" his reason for being hungry, besides for the developed compulsive need to stuff his face. The former was probably more practical and modest to tell the fight team. Especially the Batman, who's already done with Arthur's attitude and the arguing.

But he knows better than to confuse anyone, to be misunderstood again. To clarify - "I'm really hungry." Very nervous, ready to spaz.

Arthur gives him a look and walked away. Well so much for that.

Barry was going to make a joke about them getting along. Throw his arm around one of Victor's shoulders and the other arm in the air around Arthur's shoulder, suggesting they get a pizza or six and chill out, and maybe the solution for Superman would come to them and they can try again tomorrow.

Upon Diana placing her hand on Victor's shoulder, Barry knows that this was a special-fight-team bonding moment. It wasn't just about him, and if anyone else was hungry it would have been resolved by now.

Barry is now shaking. Stomach too fatigued to growl anymore. Teeth chattering and inpatient for something to be underneath them, hopefully something tasty or even edible at this point. He wishes he was at home, stuffing his face and not hurting. (Because of the blood sugar, of course.)

His fingers stumble over his thigh. The sword pierced finger realizes it isn't a jean pocket full of Twinkies or granola bites. Shaky eyes beam towards Diana - I doubt she would have anything for a snack - and skip over Victor with logic, and apply more logic to Bruce. Bruce is emerging from automatic doors, which less likely lead to a snack room and most likely garage or Infirmary. Though, that would be pretty cool.

But Barry was wrong. Stupid, stupid Barry.

"Barry..." Bruce says, like every foster dad he's had so far. But continues with, "Go find Alfred in the pantry."

Alright. Alfred… Alfred...

He stumbles off to the door Bruce just came through, glancing back at the team for approval. To find no one had even noticed him missing from his hiding spot.

His feet rocked in the elevator, making him feel more dizzy. He remembers every little speck on the walls, each scrape on the floor. Various sounds that resonated through the empty structure - glass dishes clacking together, the beep of an oven, whirring of an open fridge. Arthur calling him a "weeb"…. and synonyms of it... Barry's smile was too strong to melt off his faxf, and then seeing the Batcave open before his eyes made it all worth it - or, as he continues trying to convince himself browsing R4R and MakeFriendsHere, wondering if it's worth it.

The lakehouse had looked small upon first glance through transport window. But to actually go through it was like one of those haunted houses his mom's boyfriend Darryl would prompt him into. And if Darryl was to be believed, his mom was always with Barry, even now. God, he hoped. Cobwebs, a flickering light, and all's hell here. Though it was expected, something he should be used to by now after always being left home alone on Darryl's worknights to do his own laundry... left to explore a new foster house, trying to find his bedroom downstairs in Centipedeland... or even spending the last six years constantly finding a new place to strip down and move into. Now this: this is next level wubba lubba. Maybe it's a good thing his eyes are going streaky.

Just find the stairs, and go up one step, then the next with a loud clink of his boot. Don't focus on literally the only sign of non-crawly life. That floating body streaked over in yellow, holding what appears to be a shank? Harpoon? Barry's not too good in the weapons department, nor ghosts. As well as the walk-in shower at the stop of the stairs, dripping like there's no tomorrow, hissing as if the pipes had been woken after many years. And that dust rat that can't mind it's personal space. But it's whatever, he'll get over it.

Stay focused. Get out of this literal cave and find-

"Any luck?" echoes through the house.

Barry freezes. His head whips back and forth, trying to alleviate the lump in his throat.

The queasy steps surely weren't Master Wayne or Diana, and with process of elimination and the smell of hunger, the old saint concluded, "Mister Allen."

Barry trembles out a yes. But then... that voice, with that accent and charm. Alfred.

Barry's eyes light up. Alfred? The first person in what seemed like a decade to look him straight in the eye, no glancing up and down in doubt. No psychological test, no- Barrry will always remember the man smiling down and waving back in salute, no matter how silly Barry must have been, flapping his arm with a wacky inflatable tube man, the wave was a bit too magical, like what he could imagine a grandpa doing to n estatic toddler. Still attention nonetheless, and Barry can't complain.

God, he hates not remembering his grandfather. He hates no longer remembering living in times when his grandfather held a lot of things together, back when the family was "normal".

Instead he has to pretend he didn't see everything he once thought was normal, just somehow confusing for his belly. The fights on the other side of the wall. Mom was being bad - funny, but bad. Sometimes it was dad earning a time out. Or being sentenced out, presumably to stay on Uncle's boring farm, get grounded to do boring farm work. Barry's been threatened but thankfully it never happened. Every Friday (pizza day at school, and often conference day), somebody got a spanking.

" _You're glad it's just Barry-" something something "imagine if both were here, with you acting this way_." Oh, it's nothing, Barry.

The mommy-and-me days... Barry getting swirly ice cream all over his carseat while surveying this shop and mascot he's never seen before... holding her hand through the store and feeling her Nokia continuously vibrate whenever he clashed with her body. Stupid spam calls, collection agencies. Oh and all the funny drunk voicemails and missed calls he'd see on the home phone log anytime he called Barbara from science camp, way back when her dad still thought things were "still good" (what happened to her since then, by the way?).

Dad going on trips for work and his boss lying to Barry's mom about them "not being real" (discrediting his dad? No.).

That snowy day when his dad was too busy with paperwork to catch Barry climbing into their warm uber bouncy bed, losing Panthro, searching for Panthro... seeing the divorce papers wrapped by daddy's blanket, waiting to surprise his daddy like a Hanukkah gift. The murder that interrupted what Barry hates considering could've been a happy divorce. A new start where his mom could've continued to be a great one, even if her on own. No creepy zIP ZAP (revenge? vigilantic?) murder. And even with it, maybe his father could be innocent and still saving lives, not yelling at Barry from behind glass before being yanked away. Like his childhood, when he wasn't ashamed to love them both. Or wondering if this compulsive fight was even worth it.

"Master Allen?!"

Barry's skull is tingly. It radiates to the bones of his fingertips when he pushes his eyebrows together. He's going to puke. He feels it in his nose and throat when he says, "Yyyeah, Alfred?"

If Barry wasn't But here he is, thinking about it anyway. Intrusive thoughts at their finest

Oh. Guess Barry really is uncultured. Or just dumb, forgetful.

"Take a seat, Mister Barry. Must have been quite the day, it's still early. I'm sure you're hungry."

Cue Barry's gut literally rumbling like a phone. With a hand over his belly, he finds his spot at the table. The only spot with a mat and coaster. He slouches toward the the coaster as Aflred reaches over to put a foggy glass down. The dainty brown fluid pings against the ice as Barry picks at the table leg. He watches the bubbles scurry up to the top.

As easy as it is for Barry to run his mouth about, well, everything (ever since Bruce and Diana actually allowed him to talk, and wanted him to for some reason), it's a struggle for him now. "I-I'm sorry... Not to be rude here or anything, but I don't drink..." Even if he was wrong and his metabolism allowed for it, he still isn't up to lose any more control over his existence. To give them even more jokes or opinions for them to have to pretend was normal and not awkward. Wet his pants at work yet again (and break the five-year record). Fall over for the sixth time today - probably a repeat of this morning, spilling waffles with two cups of syrup all over the rug and chairs, but instead of Diana's cozy apartment it's this $5M house and the chair cushion alone is probably as much as Barry's suit would've cost with the legal route. Whichareequallybad, don't get him wrong. Just, nevermind.

"It's cider."

Barry twitches his head. "Oh..."

Some cider splashes onto the table. More dribbles from the rim and fills the coaster, pooling onto the table. This sparkling clean table Alfred just set up, which looks like it took at least an hour.

_"Didn't he teach you any manners?" - Darryl, folding up his sports section, to either swat Barry or push him away and clean the mess._

_"Your mother may have dealt with this. But it won't fly with me. You're not coming into my house and ruining everything that I work hard for every day."_

Alfred comes to the table with a steaming bowl cupped in his hand.

"I'd presumed (-hoped) the team would join." Alfred places the bowl in front of him, like the delicate antique ceramic it is.

Barry leans towards the steam and it's a lot different then the steam from a TV dinner, or a pizza if the delivery guy makes it early enough. It smells much more fancy than anything Barry's ever had before, much better than that Indian street food that went through him faster than literally anything. Don't be rude, Barry.

"Well, they're busy doing... Stuff. I guess." Special fight team stuff. Fighting. Being not a team in the efforts of trying to be a team. But if it helps, "This soup is amazing, I appreciate it."

"Bruce isn't one to eat much. I can see Diana and the others are the same way. Not like I would know..."

Alfred disappears to the counters behind Barry, clacking around in a drawer before returning with some polished cutlery. Then a funny circular spoon, like the ones you see at buffet restaurants next to the crackers.

He wraps the spoon in a cloth napkin and places it on the table. In his other hand he presents a plate, which looks even older than the bowl. At the sight of tiny triangle sandwiches, which are crisped brown and oozing with Swiss cheese and some kind of leafy green, Barry's drooling. He has his shaky arm out, fingers pinched two inches from the plate.

The older man smiles at Barry's eagerness. To eat. Open up. Try something new, enjoy something healthy. To even take a seat at this table, despite shaking it every three seconds, nearly spilling everything.

It's cute. Alfred misses those days.

He often forgets there were days like this. A life more simple than exploding wind-up penguins. Even simpler, like Bruce's birthdays where the mulligatawny suddenly stopped mattering. The minute those manor doors opened, the wind-up racecars or animals would hit the wall or a table leg. Prior to a chubby Bruce racing Thomas to the giant chair. Worming around on the man's big knee, with his jaw nearly falling off due to another story. Eyes shimmering, watching his potential future unfold as Thomas pulled off the big stethoscope.

He likes to think he can remember. Possibly one day it'll come to him so vividly, he'll feel the merciless sting of hot soup leaking through his boot lace. What was once so painful, unbelievably messy, is much more painful and unbelievably messy when missed.

There are dishes to be done, until the timer on the oven runs out. Hopefully the dogs are still hungry after this morning's feast. Alfred pops one of the sandwiches into his mouth.

Barry is already halfway done eating. Before the food can even cool, before the piping heat of the food can even graze his mouth.

He glances out of the corner of his eye with a sheepish non-grin, covered in crumbs from a sneaked cookie. "You can sit down…."

"Oh, I'm alright. I got much to do."

Just stay quiet. Eat. Mouth, food in. Poker face.

His legs intertwine with the table leg. His "space shuttle" suit is too thick for him to feel that he is constantly grinding against the table and that it isn't shaking just for no reason. Maybe his suit really is overrated and a little too much.

He forces himself to stop. Just for once Barry, please stop. Just eat, eat like always. Stuff it shut. Don't get too excited, you'll start screaming and spit food everywhere, you'll get the table and knock something over.

_"What's going on over here?" - Mr. Cewinsky, who just gave him an extra day on his homework, and was now coming over to yell at Jesse because Barry knocked her water bottle over, before failing to catch it. And popping it across the room._

_"Go get some more napkins..." - his crush, Iris, looking at the pile of saliva and fruit soup that had glopped on the table when he missed the napkin. "Never mind, I'll get it."_

_"Don't." - Bruce. Who could have been meaner but constantly forces himself not to be._

_And Diana, as she stopped the $4.50 Pepsi from destrying the booth, the bread she was trying to butter, and her jacket, Bruce's phone, the ripped menu, the ring stand and flippy papers... "Barry, be more careful."_

His eyes begin to well up. The soup is just too spicy. The bittersweet spices perch on his lips, and it's not bad compared to Hot Mama gas station pickles or hot Cheetos, but... His eyes water. His cheek is a little wet.

" _Henry, I leave the room fo five minutes..." His mom. "Look at this!"_

He's shaking. The side of the bowl smacks the table, and gushes the soup like chunky lava. All over the nice embroidered napkin, instantly dying it dark red. Down and off the table, with Curry and expensive steak pooling into the floor. All soaking into the grooves and cracks in the wood, that looks handmade in the pink sunlight. It's even splattered all over the curtains, white with an orange tint due to the sunset, now for sure permanent, yet ruined. The spoon is clumped onto the rug, he knows, he doesn't have to look.

And all over Alfred. Beyond the apron. Splotched to his knees, nearly drenched below the knees. Blistering soup is sinking into his boots, which are so vintage that the polish had worn off with pride, now all tainted with stains that blend in quite well but are not okay at all, and-

His hands race to cover his ears. "I am SO SORRY!" Though from experience (need he remind himself?) he knows apologies are worthless. Maybe he could hide in the speed force and fix it? And if that doesn't work, he could disappear.

Barry automatically assumes the bowl is also chipped or cracked, and that's why the soup is pouring so quickly. Yeah, that. Of course. Ruined. Like everything he touches and had touched so far.

But Alfred just smiles. Bruce has done the same, back when innocence and mistakes were still a thing.

He does the same as he did with Bruce, pulling the napkin off his arm and a wet cloth from his apron and offering them to Barry. "For the table, and your person."

"W-what?"

Alfred prompts Barry's hand to take the wet cloth. "For your person. Face, and suit." He grins. "And hair."

Barry looks at the rag, his entire face twisted in utter confusion.

Then Alfred places the napkin down on the table, and folds up as much curry as possible with the soiled one. "You can get the table, to the best of your ability. I will handle the floor for now. It will be better when I mop later tonight."

Barry complies, but uses his fingernails to pick the spatter from his hair. He crumples the rag in his hands like a tissue to get his chin, then stops at his suit.

To the best of Barry's ability? He's never heard this one before. He'd be laughing right now if it wasn't for his heart clamping against his lungs as he repeats the event in his head a million times.

He looks up at Alfred, who is facing away from him. But something in him tells him that Alfred is still listening, still here, hasn't abandoned.

And for once, Barry is right. Alfred comes back around after stocking up on more napkins, with another bowl in tow.

The friendliness isn't the joke. The bowl is. When it clicks into the table, Barry's going to reel it over, look inside, it's going to be empty, like he deserves, or dry oats or clumpy rice because that's all he can handle. Of course, it made sense. He didn't make the joke fast enough and Alfred will bad him to it.

But Barry is wrong, and for once it's great.

This bowl steams just as hard as the last one did when Alfred first set it down. Fresh from the pot, what Barry would've had to begin with, and what Alfred apparently thinks he deserves.

He looks over to see that most of the mess had been cleaned up by Alfred when he picked up the dirty napkin. It seems to be good enough for Alfred, as he is handed another spoon. Not the one from the floor, either fresh or with the luxury of having been wiped off, but a new spoon.

Alfred sees he hasn't started eating yet. "Is there something wrong, Master Barry?"

Actually, nevermind. Please let this be a joke. Barry is trembling on the inside, curling his tongue and biting his cheeks. Doesn't want to look at Alfred but he knows he can't help but look at literally everything including Alfred. He can't handle confrontation.

But with Alfred, is it really confrontation? According to Alfred, there was nothing wrong here. The little twinkle in his eye despite now being concerned is sort of happy. Really, very happy. Barry has no idea what he's doing, or what he did, especially the doing part. He's just fumbling with the spoon, playing with the broth. Eventually caving in and stealing a few bites here and there, to look back up at Alfred and see the twinkle shine brighter.

Barry croaked, while shoving the corner of a sandwich in his mouth, "Well, I mean. Thanks for the soup. Again, I know, I-"

"It's alright." Alfred casually turned to the sink with the used bowl and spoon. "Chew first. Wouldn't want you to choke, Master Barry."

" Oh," the young boy giggles with his finger out, "yeah. I forget sometimes."

Alfred goes completely red from smiling so hard. Hearing the young man chew to the rhythm of the rag squeaking against the plates. Wiggling his foot inside of the stretched boot, once again playing the little game he made up almost 40 years ago (and hasn't played since then) where he kicks the chunks into the empty parts of his boot, and away from his burnt toes. His entire arm getting soaked even further each time he reaches in for a different plate, or chuckles at something cute that comes out of the boy's mouth. And for Barry, it's endless, just as it was for Bruce back in the good old days.


End file.
